


There But For...

by we are the stories (Detliela)



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Healing, Implied past (and for some characters current) sexual abuse/rape/domestic violence, Modern AU, Slow Burn, Vaguely inspired by The Drop, bartender / corrupt cops or crime AU, mention of forced prostitution, set in generic south west American town
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detliela/pseuds/we%20are%20the%20stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s nothing like it -- the roar of an engine, wind sweeping through the cabin, the power of metal and chrome moving to her will. It eases her shoulders and makes her forget. Furiosa thinks it’s enough, until a quiet stranger is stranded in their small town and they both find themselves facing off against a corrupt sheriff in an effort to protect a young witness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP and my first attempt in this fandom and ship. All beta work was done by me so I’m sure I missed stuff. If anyone likes it and would like to cheerlead/beta please let me know. I’m also on tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/we-are-the-stories

Furiosa’s eyes burn from too many hours out in the dry heat and her shoulder aches as it continues to support her custom prosthetic. She tries to keep it down and rests the metal arm against her thigh, steering the old pick-up with only her flesh and bone hand. At least at this hour the road is practically deserted - dark, quiet, and hypnotically winding. It eases her shoulders down from her neck and makes her forget. So she fangs it, hearing her mother’s voice form the words and brings her mechanical hand back to the wheel so she can shift down to maneuver the bend. There’s nothing like it -- the roar of an engine, wind sweeping through the cabin, the power of metal and chrome moving to her will.

Tail lights come into her view up ahead, but they’re off to the side of the road at an odd angle. Its a dangerous sharp right near a concrete ditch. She’s seen many totaled cars dragged into her shop for an official opinion after a drunk or a some kamakazi kid who thinks he can drive has miscalculated the turn. She edges closer as she slows and mutters, _shit_ , as she makes out the overturned vehicle.

She pulls to a stop and then gathers her flashlight and phone from the glove box. She eyes the steep concrete slant into the ravine and pockets the cell and flashlight. She eases her feet downward with a huff and does her best not to scrape up her hand or prosthesis whenever her balance falters, nearly tumbling her forward.

Once her feet are on relatively flat ground she retrieves the flashlight. The car is an old Ford Falcon that has probably seen better days even before it toppled into a ditch. She zeroes the light in on the driver's side closest to her. But as it turns out, it’s not the driver’s side at all -- it’s fitted like a european car with the wheel to the right. It’s a once beauty a long way from home.

She crouches down and sees a pair of boots, toes down, struggling to make their way out of the driver side window. Furiosa pops up and then crawls over the underside of the hood, boots slipping against the metal. The driver's grunting, head down, and fingers digging into the concrete as he tries to pull himself further out. She points the light at him and he looks up before his eyes flutter, blood trickling down his forehead. Then his head hits the ground.

“Hey!” she calls and kneels next him as she checks his pulse. “Hey. Come on. Fuck.”

She pulls out her phone and dials 911.

//

She follows the ambulance into the city. It's completely out of her way, but she figures he’s on his own and his car will probably end up in her garage anyway. Least she can do is give its driver a lift to a motel or something. So, she finds herself sitting in a blue plastic chair just as the sky is starting to turn pink. It's been hours and there's no sign of the man in the scarred leather jacket with a gash on his head. She finally pushes herself out of the chair and strides to the nurse's station to ask about him only to learn he checked himself out against medical advice a half hour ago.

"Oh." She blinks, shuffling backwards, and then turns to leave, feeling oddly disappointed. She shakes feeling off and heads to her truck, grateful that it’s still early enough that she won’t have to pay a fee for the deck.

An hour later she pulls up to her house -- a two story number with rounded windows and doorways that her grandparents lived and died in. They call the neighborhood the Wasteland because behind everyone’s backyard there’s nothing by salt with a range of desert mountains separating them from the city. Toast, one of her current tenants, is there on the porch with a cigarette and a cup of coffee as if she’s waited up all night.

“Where have you been?” Toast asks as she eyes from the rim of her mug.  

“Got distracted,” she replies as she starts loosening the belts of her prosthesis. “Where’s Capable?”

“Early shift at the dinner.”

Furiosa nods absently and then head in to climb the stairs to her bedroom, ignoring Toast’s calls of, “hey, where were you?” She drops the metal arm to the floor and then collapses onto her mattress hoping for just a few hours shut eye so she can at least make an appearance at the shop.  

That afternoon, after five cups of coffee, the stranger’s car is towed into her garage and she has no idea what the fuck to do with it.

//

Two weeks pass and the old car sits in the least used garage bay, which the police, insurance crooks, and the owner have seem to forgotten. Ace and her repair boys wonder after it from the doorway of her office, but she just shrugs. Maybe it’ll be a good night time project -- something to drag back to her home garage and tinker with when she’s not sleeping. She’ll give it a month and then claim it as hers.

She and Ace close up the shop at 5:30. He asks her if she wants to grab a drink at The Citadel as he often does on payday. He’s a salty old man, but for whatever reason he likes her. Never has given her shit about working for a woman or asked about her arm. She usually says “no” because she hates The Citadel -- hates the man who runs it, while most everyone else sees him as the savior of their neighborhood. She thinks she might actually call Ace a friend if he didn’t fall into the later category.

But she finds her head nodding yes to his invitation. Maybe it’s because she’s tired. She’s run back in forth out of the Wasteland three times in two weeks, securing two women with her old friend, Val, and collecting a new tenant for her spare room. And so a glass of smooth burning liquid sounds like the perfect way to take the edge off the hours and hours of sleep she hasn’t been getting.

They walk the two blocks from the shop to The Citadel. The happy hour crowd is still filling in and there are only raucous corners instead of one booming choir of clinking glasses and testosterone filled whoops and hollers. It’s almost bearable. Ace immediately veers to the calls of Slit and Nux, two of their apprentices at the shop. They're at a back table with a few low-level police officers who all seem to think they’re Dirty Harry.

Furiosa vaguely hears Nux ask after her to Ace as she goes to the mostly empty bar, save a couple older men who’ve probably been there the better part of the afternoon. The bartender, a man she doesn’t recognize, has his back turned as she approaches. He’s not exceptionally tall, but fairly broad, solid with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms.

The scratch of her stool mingles with the crash of plates and he swivels at the waist, hand going to his hip for some holster that isn’t actually there. She stills halfway onto the stool as he eyes her like he’s not really seeing her, but something else. Something that won’t leave him be. She really looks at him then. He’s surprisingly tan with roughly shorn hair, bristly cheeks, and a still healing cut slicing through his hair line.

“It’s you,” she says.

He cocks his head and eyes the perimeter. She pulls herself completely up on the stool and shoots him _a calm the fuck down_ stare. After a moment and a jerky nod, his shoulders ease slightly and he finally actually seems to meet her eyes.

“I’m the one who found you. When you ran off the road.”

He hums and nods his head. She’s not sure if it’s in acknowledgement or appreciation, but he turns around to survey the clean glasses and bottles of liquor.

“What do you drink?” he asks and she hears some vague remnants of an accent that she can’t place.

“Whiskey.”

He places a shot glass in front of her and then pours her drink as he says, “on me.”

“Well then, you’re welcome,” she mutters and then throws back the shot. She slams the glass back down eyes closed and mouth open as the liquid burns down her throat until it settles in her gut. When she opens her eyes he’s looking over her like he doesn’t quite know what to do with her. Its a look she’s gotten used to between her short cropped hair, black boots, and makeup-less face. Not to mention her metal arm, which he may or may not be able to currently make out since it’s covered in the arm of her jacket. She taps the glass on the bar and quirks her eyebrow for another. He nods and she takes another shot on him.

He turns to wipe down the corner of the bar just vacated and she finds her eyes swaying towards him as she plays with the shot glass. She notices a slight limp on his left side as he turns back in her direction and he catches her staring. She brushes her hand over her hair and then meets his eyes.

“I have your car back at my shop.”

His eyes change then as if there’s finally some feeling of relief and he hums out a sigh.

“With the right care she might be salvageable,” she continues.

“I, uh, I knew it was in a garage here. Was waiting to get some cash before I asked about it,” he says, gesturing with his thumb in the general direction of the bar, as if it’s a clear explanation as to why he’s here.  

She begins to nod, but then there’s a roar from the building crowd. She and the stranger look towards the door and there he is -- The Immortan Joe. They call him Immortan because of the times he should have died, but survived -- leukemia as a kid, being the only surviving POW from his platoon in Vietnam, and then the three bullets he’s taken as the local Sheriff. He’s become a legend so married to his own myth that he might actually believe he’s immortal. He’s flanked by his wall of a son, Rictus, and his very pregnant and very young wife, Angharad.

Furiosa can’t help but zero in on the girl’s rigid back, a sign of defiant pride or fear or, probably, a mixture of both. She has to look away and down to the bar. The stranger hovers over her and when she looks up his eyes are fluttering between her and the wife.

“She’s young,” he says as if it’s more than just stating the obvious. As if the word encapsulates how she’s not really a wife at all. Not by choice anyway.

“Yeah. Well, he likes them young,” she says and hops off the stool before he can eye her or actually question what she’s not saying. She shoves a few dollars from her pocket towards him as a tip and he tries to refuse, but she just slides the cash harder against the wood. “My shop’s two blocks east. Come by whenever you’re ready.”

  
Furiosa doesn’t wait for a silent nod or a hum or the slight possibility of more sparse words. She just heads to the door, ignoring Ace’s call of “Hey Boss!” She does, however, against her better judgement, find her eyes glancing to the right to Joe’s table. He smiles that smile that’s almost a sneer and tips his glass to her. She storms out the door and she isn’t sure if the laughter she hears is real or in her head from memories far, far away.  


	2. Chapter 2

 

Saturday mornings Furiosa spends at the gym. It’s not one of those fancy places with ellipticals and zumba classes. It’s a fighter’s gym mostly frequented by would-be locals looking to prove their worth, retired fighters like Ace, and Joe’s officers shouting their war-boy chants. She’s one of two women who hasn’t been run out of the place after one day. The other being Ms. Giddy, who the boys are fascinated by because of her tattooed body and respect because she is Joe’s ex-wife. She’s gotten frail as she has aged but she still has a way with a gun and enjoys a good fight from her perch at the rickety front desk. 

 

Furiosa works one of the free bags with a clear view of the ring. She steadies it with her prosthesis as she hits with knees, legs, elbows, and fist. She occasionally eyes the ring where Ace calls in pairs to battle it out. Slit's up, dancing around the ring likes he's at Madison Square Garden, while Ace calls in Nux.

 

Furiosa rolls her eyes and focuses on the crush of her hand against vinyl and sand. Her eyes can't help but stray to the ring. Nux is a sloppy fighter, never protecting his left, but he's quick on his feet. What Slit lacks in skill, he makes up for in ferocity and goes for any and every opening Nux gives without hesitation. Without fear. And that's why he's able wrestle Nux to the ground until he taps out.

 

Nux hangs on the ropes as he catches his breath, while Slit takes a victory lap with his hands bouncing in the air. He really is a little shit. She already has a mental list of offenses ranging from just cackling too loudly when Nux makes the same rookie mistake he did the week before, or standing a little too close as she instructs him as they rebuild an engine, eyeing her with something that might be awe.

 

“Ace!” Furosa calls as she approaches the ring before she can stop herself. “Tag me in.”

 

Ace smirks and then points at Slit. “Looks like you’re taking on the boss.” Slit eyes her with a shit eating grin and growls “yeah,” as she strips off her metal arm. He’s seen her fight before, so there’s no illusion about her capability as an opponent. The new guys always eye her arm and glance around as if it’s some sort of frat house joke. But Slit looks at her with a gleam in his eye, like he’s thinking of other things they could be doing besides fighting. She glares back -- _not a fucking chance_.

 

Ace takes her metal arm for safe keeping as she puts on the necessary padding and then he calls the fight to start. Slit dances around and takes swings as she dodges. But she’s just as ferocious as he is when she gets lost in the rhythm of the fight and swings or kicks with all her body, grunting with the effort. Only, she has the skill to back it up. She has to. She doesn’t have the luxury of posturing on the weight of her sex or assuming she can intimidate just by standing straight.

 

She wrestles him down -- one leg hooked around his shoulder and the other his stomach as her good arm twines around his. She arches her back to hold him still, growling with effort, until he taps her knee. She pushes as he rolls and then Ace is above her giving her a hand up. Slit lies on his back as he pants with a small smile on this face.

 

Furiosa trades Ace the pads for her prosthesis and she tucks it between her half-arm and side. She turns to head out of the ring, ignoring the whoops and digs the boys shout out. That’s when she spots him. The stranger is in the back, leaning against Ms. Giddy’s desk as he watches her. He’s not dressed for the gym, but in jeans and a T-shirt with a couple of small grocery bags hanging from his fingers. He gives her a small nod as if it’s a “hello” and an “I’m impressed” all at once. She blinks, looking away, and then climbs out of the ring. She pats Nux on the shoulder as she passes and murmurs in his ear, “you gotta watch your left. You got speed. Use it.”

 

She heads back to the wall of lockers and hangs her arm on the metal door. There’s the shuffling of feet approaching her and then a throat clears as she pats at her damp forehead with a small white towel. She knows it’s him before she glances over at him. He’s standing there, eyes not quite meeting hers. One second he’s focused on her and the next he’s glancing over her shoulder or to the left.

 

“Hi,” he finally says.

 

“Hi,” she replies and looks hims up and down trying to figure what it is he wants beyond stilted conversation. “You looking to spar?”

 

“No,” he says quickly, like maybe he’s a little afraid of her. “I’m renting the apartment upstairs.”

 

_Apartment_ is a kind description of the room Ms. Giddy rents out. It’s just a room with a bed, tub, toilet, and kitchenette not meant for long term use. Furiosa remembers the mothball smelling sheets as she hid out for two nights many, many years ago.

 

“I, uh, I was thinking about coming over to your shop,” he says, almost startling her. “Monday. If I can get the parts I should be able to do most of the work myself.”

 

“Okay. I usually open up around 8:30. We can figure out what you’ll need and go from there.”

 

He nods grunting out what might be, “all right.” He licks his lips like he’s going to speak and she can’t help but watch the movement. His lips are full -- fuller than she can ever recall seeing on a man. There’s something soft about them beneath the short, patchy whiskers trying to hide them. When he notices her looking, she turns to her locker and tosses the towel into her bag stowed inside.

 

“I’m Max.”

 

She twists her neck to look over at him and he he holds her eyes, or at least tries to. Its obvious he wants to look away -- wants to check his surroundings. She wonders what the hell happened to make him so vigilant.

 

“Furiosa,” she says. “I’ll see you Monday.” 

 

He nods and then takes himself and his groceries to the rear door leading up to his room. He disappears without a glance back. She doesn’t know what to do with the low throaty sound of his voice still ringing in her ear or this fluttering in her gut.

 

//

 

She walks across the street to the diner with her gym bag slung over her shoulder. It’s weighty with her prosthetic and her body feels the imbalance -- one arm practically airy while the other takes on work it isn’t used to.

 

The diner is starting to fill in for Saturday brunch when people are out and about in the nearby shopping pavilion, which is actually just two blocks of shops west of The Citadel. Capable is there for her most coveted and profitable shift. Furiosa catches a glimpse of the younger woman’s fiery red locks as she places white plates filled with eggs and bacon or pancakes down for a family of four. As she turns to head back to the kitchen, Furiosa catches her eyes and gives a small nod. Capable offers a short wave in return and then disappears into the kitchen to place Furiosa’s regular order.

 

Furiosa settles into a booth where she can easily see the whole length of the narrow structure and gazes out the window. The sun pours in and it’s a pleasant warm contrast to the cold air pumping through the vents of the diner.  She glances over at the gym -- up at the little window she knows looks into the room Ms. Giddy rents out and she _wants._ Her stomach turns with it because it’s not just the idea of sex, but wanting to _know_ him. She’s had her share of tumbles but to say she’s a little fucked up in the relationship department wouldn’t exactly be unfair. She thinks of Valkyrie -- the one real, healthy relationship she could have had. But she just couldn’t. She loves Val, but not the way she wanted her to. 

 

“Hey,” Capable’s voice and then the clatter of the plate of eggs and toast startles her as Capable promptly slides into the seat across from her. “I need to talk to you.”

 

She lowers her voice to a whisper and Furiosa sighs. She likes Capable, but her penchant for picking up strays (animal or human) to mother back to health or independence is both one of her most admirable and tiring qualities.

 

“Aren’t you working?”

 

“I’m entitled to a ten minute break,” she says and then leans her elbow on the table coming closer to her. “Listen, Angharad came in this morning.”

 

Furiosa shuts her eyes and sighs. She knows Capable has become close to Angharad and she sees where this is going -- how something is about to become her problem. She scratches her fingers through her hair and finally looks back to the younger woman.

 

“And?”

 

“She wants out. She needs to get out of here.”

 

“That doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

 

“But you can help her. Like you’re helping us.”

 

“No. I can’t.”

 

“You get girls out of here all the time.”

 

“No. Not like this. The girls I get out of the city are ones noone’s gonna miss. Dime a dozen to people like Joe. Replaceable.”

 

“But she needs--”

 

“Do you know the kind of hell he’d rain down if she disappeared? The resources he has to get her back? She’s having his child. He’s not letting her go anywhere.”

 

“She’s not a thing,” Capable argues in a harsh whisper through gritted teeth. “He can’t just keep her. Do you have any idea the things he’s done to her?”

 

Furiosa cuts her eyes to Capable and holds her gaze in a blatant _fuck you_ glare because she does know. More than most and sure as hell more than her. Capable glares right back until Furiosa asks, “Do you have any idea what he’d do to her once he caught her?” It’s quiet, but firm and after a moment Capable blinks first. Furiosa looks back to the window and squints at the light, pushing out old memories she sometimes thinks are gone until they’re not.

 

“Please,” Capable says, her voice softening. “Just talk to her.”

 

She starts to protest again, but then the manager is calling after Capable, who huffs. She murmurs, “please just think about it” as she pulls herself up from the booth and leaves Furiosa with her untouched plate.

 

//

 

Furiosa stays out longer than she usually would and takes refuge in her shop. She paces around the old Falcon belonging to the stranger -- to Max -- and mentally catalogs the obvious pieces he'll need. Fender, grill, headlights, suspension, radiator. It helps her erase the image of Angharad from the bar -- of the unseen scars she hides beneath poised shoulders and held high head.

 

It’s past six when she comes through her house’s side entrance to find Toast and Capable hunched over the kitchen table. Their mouths are open in mid sentence but silent as they stare up at her. The TV is on in the background and she can see Dag, the newest tenant, through the open space as she curls onto the living room sofa with her chin on her knees. Furiosa glances back between Toast and Capable as they shrug and look down at the table, picking at imaginary lint.

 

“Did I interrupt something?” Furiosa asks.

 

They both mutter no in an echoed round and then Capable stands. She jams her chair back under the table and avoids Furiosa’s gaze as she says, “I have to get ready anyway.”

 

“Where are you going?” Furiosa asks.

 

Capable looks at her and shrugs a shoulder. “I asked out Nux.”

 

“Puppy dog probably didn’t know what to do with himself,” Toast chimes in and somewhere in the background Furiosa hears Dag, “guys you might…”

 

Capable strides out the door to make her way to her studio above the garage before Furiosa can call her back. Furiosa huffs and then stares down at Toast, who ticks her with a flutter of her lashes.

 

“Whatever you two are thinking -- don’t,” Furiosa says.

 

“We’re not doing anything--”

 

“Guys, seriously you need to hear this,” Dag calls, looking over her shoulder. 

 

Furiosa walks to hover behind the sofa with Toast following. Joe’s face is there on the TV decked out in his sheriff's regalia as he stands at a podium of microphones. “At ten o’clock this morning the body of Major Sam Kalashnikov was found in his home, after what we believe to have been a robbery gone wrong. The cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma to the head, but an autopsy is pending. This is obviously a sad day for Westland County and for me personally as he was a close friend and a pillar of our community.”

 

“I thought you said this place was safe?” Dag accuses, looking up at Furiosa.

 

“Probably deserved what he got,” Toast mutters.

 

Furiosa cuts her eyes at Toast in a _not right now_ glare and then softens her eyes as she looks back to Dag. “You’re safe here. I promise. Stick to what I say and you’ll be fine.”

 

“But--”

 

“Look, he was a bad man with his hand in a lot of bad things. Whatever happened to him, I doubt it was random. You’re safe here.”

 

Dag blinks and looks away, eyes wide, like she isn’t quite sure she believes it. Furiosa squeezes her shoulder and then brushes past Toast to retreat to her room.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn’t run off the road. Max was ran off by a sports car filled with rowdy kids, who he thinks stopped before then peeling off panicked. He remembers frantic voices beneath the ringing in his ears - _fuck man, is he dead, come on, we got to get out of here._ The voices mingled with a woman’s screams and the roar of motorcycle engines nearly decades old. He still isn’t sure if the pain that shot down his leg and radiated in his knee was real or just a memory.

 

He thinks about correcting her - the woman who apparently helped him - that night he sees her in the bar, but doesn’t feel like putting in the effort. It doesn’t change that he’s stuck here. Tending bar. It’s exhausting, but it’s the one job that’s transient enough that he doesn’t have to worry about people asking too many questions. .

 

Every night, come seven o’clock, the crowd thickens and mixtures of different conversations amplify off the walls. Patrons call his attention back and forth like he owes them something or like they just plain own him. Eventually, his quiet spoken “sure’s” and “you’re welcome’s” peter out to hums and then grunts.

 

But he picks up a lot about the little county and it’s hometown hero. Tonight, Joe’s welcome into the bar is somber with glasses held high for a lost friend before he retreats to his usual table. Corpus, the bar’s manager and bookkeeper, sits in his wheelchair once removed from his father by the young wife nearly every night. The wife looks anywhere but her husband while Corpus bickers with and corrects every other sentence his brother, Rictus, makes. Meanwhile, Joe huddles over three hand-written bank books, even though the bar only has one, and asks Corpus terse questions about deductions here and there.

 

Eventually, Joe passes Corpus a cash-shaped envelope that he later places in a second safe under the bar separate from the one they use for the nightly drop from the tills. Max watches until Corpus glares up at him. Max concedes with a grunt and moves to the other end of the bar. It’s not his problem and in a few months he should be long gone. 

 

Max has met his share of corrupt cops - ones that will look the other way for the right incentive or get drunk off the power of their position. Joe might be a bit of both. He walks in every night like king of the castle and all the patrons feed into it as they shout out welcomes and whisper myths. Occasionally, one will brave a chance to take a walk to Joe’s table, either meek or flashy, but ready to kneel and kiss his ring all the same.

 

The only one who seems unimpressed is the wife - Splendid he calls her, but Max hears Angharad too. Joe wears her on his arm the same way he wears his uniform, like something shiny for others to be in awe of. Tonight, he notices her gaze catch something at the end of the bar and he follows it to a riot of red hair beside the boy who never protected his left in the ring. He glances back to Angharad, who is already walking towards them and then tugs the other young woman towards the ladies.

 

When Max peers back at Joe’s table, he catches the man glaring at him as if he’s some gorilla ready to fight for his mate. Max looks down to the bar and wipes away condensation and water. None of this is any of his business and it’s certainly not his problem.

 

//

 

Max can barely look at anyone by the end of his shifts. It’s been over a decade since he has stayed in one place for more than a few days and he itches with it. He wants to pile into his old falcon and gun the engine onto the next town or state or country. But his old companion is held up in a garage, broken and waiting for him. She - Furiosa - had said she was salvageable. Hopefully it was true.  Hopefully he can get the hell out of here in the next couple of months. So, as soon as the till is counted and the counters wiped, he’s out the door in the dry desert night.

 

He goes to the empty gym through the side door Miss Giddy had given him the key to. It’s mostly dark and blessedly quiet, with a single emergency light casting shadows on the open space. Miss Giddy has offered him free range of the gym whenever he wants, as long as he cleans up after himself. He’s a bit taken aback by how quickly he’s granted the privilege and the motherly way she pats his arm or shoulder. He’s realized she’s estranged or maybe just ignored by her sons in preference to their father. He can’t help but twitch at the attention she gives him - mostly one-sided chats over coffee in the morning or a tupperware dish given to him in passing filled with roast and potatoes. 

 

Nearly every night once back at the gym, he changes and secures his knee brace. His fists pummel the bag, all stocky muscle and anger and grief, but no real finesse. He pictures Furiosa with her perfect balance of force and grace, like a fighter who could have just as easily been a dancer. It was beautiful and fierce, and stirred something that he's not ready to admit to. So, he punches and punches until he’s exhausted himself enough that he might actually sleep.

 

//

 

Every night he tries to get to them as his legs pump and his bare feet tear on the hot asphalt. But he's too late. It's always too late. Their bodies are already broken and scattered as he kneels to cradle Jessie to his chest. Her eyes flash up at him like an accusation and then her remaining hand clutches his throat, squeezing. _You did this!_

 

Max gasps as he wakes and curls in on himself, elbows to knees. He pants and tries to focus on the air he pulls into his lungs, just as the one shrink taught him years ago. Back when he tried to listen to the people telling him he still had a life.

 

He runs his fingers over his hair as he takes in one last deep breath and then pushes himself out of bed. He limps over to the tiny window, his knee stiff and unsupported, and looks down at the street. Its just barely 7 a.m., but the Monday morning workers are already starting to fill in. The diner across the street has just flipped it’s open sign to let in the people looking for a coffee to go and a few retirees coming in for the daily breakfast. He feels his breathing slow as he traces the comings and goings of the waking street.

 

Mondays are his days off and almost worst than the constant chatter of the bar. There’s only so much pacing or cleaning he can do around the small room. The stillness of it all is too much, so he might walk the length of the space or sit with a jiggling knee as he flips through the three channels the little twelve inch screen actually gets. He misses driving, the open road, and the unoppressive solitude of it.

 

Its why he dresses quickly before heading over to the diner to waste the hour or so before she said her shop would open up. Once inside, he’s instructed to a table by the red head he saw at the bar Saturday night, who takes his order of bacon and eggs with a small smile and kind eyes. She doesn’t try to chat him up like some of the people at the bar, so he sits in the silence and watches people come and go.

 

At 8:25 he puts cash on the table and makes his way to Furiosa's shop. She’s already at the front entrance as she twists her key in the lock and balances a travel mug in the bulky metal fingers of her prosthetic. He clears his throat as warning once he’s close and her fingers pause as she flashes her eyes over to him. He swallows as she looks him up and down.

 

“Eager to get started?” she asks after a beat and he responds with a hum that must be enough because she shoves the door open with a tick of her head telling him to follow. She heads to the back, explaining, “just give me a minute.”

 

He nods even though she’s already walking away. His eyes roam the open space as his nostrils fill with the smells of grease and metal. A lights flash on overhead and he notices a window peering into the office and sees her toss her keys on a desk. She’s all long, leans lines and sharp, but bright eyes. She’s an imposing figure with her black tank top, black jeans tucked into biker’s boots, and the unusual prosthetic strapped to her body. It’s obviously custom, chiseled together with thin rods and wires and he would guess she designed it herself.

 

She gestures as she comes back towards him and he follows her to the last garage bay. His shoulders nearly sag at the sight of her as he breaths out a sigh. His old falcon is a bit worse for wear but mostly intact from what he can see as he runs his fingers along the steepled hood.

 

“All in all you got pretty lucky,” he hears Furiosa say and his eyes snap back up to hers. Her brow is slightly furrowed as she watches him and he knows to everyone else it’s just a fucking car, but for him it’s practically his home. The only thing he’s been able to hold on to. “The radiator’s busted and your suspension shot, but other than that it’s mostly cosmetic.”

 

He hums and then, “I knew the suspension was going.”

 

“We could start with the radiator today. I should have spare parts.”

 

He nods and she disappears only to return with a box of tools and parts. He has every intention of working alone, but they begin to quietly work together even as he watches her from the corner of his eye. She just shrugs it off as if she doesn’t notice and hands him bits and bobs.

 

“I really can’t afford to pay you labor,” he says.

 

“Not asking you to.”

 

She doesn’t even pause in her task and after a shuffle he joins her. It’s easy passing tools back and forth in silent camaraderie as if they’ve done this dance a thousand times. Her sure and steady presence is enough to keep him in his skin and out of his head. It’s comforting, but throws him completely off kilter all the same and he realizes he can’t remember the last time he felt this at ease with another person.

 

Her employees shuffle in an half hour later with mentions of the dead Bullet Farm Supply Store owner and home invasions. The loud one proclaims all the things he do if the bastard tried take him on, but then they all stop short at the sight of their boss and him.

 

“Ace, you’re in charge of the roster today,” Furiosa says. “Ms. Shafer’s up first for her oil change. Let Nux handle it. Other than that it’s your call.”

 

“Sure thing boss,” Ace says, in a quiet way that wants to ask more questions, but he just wrangles the younger men who whisper in hushed tones. Furiosa is unphased and so he pretends to be too.

 

“Where are you from?” she finally asks.

 

He startles and his hands falter while his shoulders creep towards his ears. He grunts and shakes his head. “No where.”

 

“But you’ve spent time in Australia,” she says vaguely gesturing to the car. When he just squints up at her she says, “1973 Ford Falcon XB GT coupe. Exclusive to Australia.”

 

He blinks and then returns back to his task. His hands tremble around the wrench he holds and he can almost hear a woman’s screams.

 

“I was born there. So, I was just curious,” she says, voice trailing off as she follows his lead and goes back to her task.

 

He looks up at her surprised and his hands steady as he processes that information.

 

“Why’d you leave?”

 

“My mother was born here. When I was thirteen her father died. And we moved back.”

 

She doesn’t look up from her work as she speaks. Maybe that’s way he finds himself answering her questions before he can think not to.

 

“I, uh, I was born there too. My mother was british. Moved to Australia as a teenager. Met my father…”

 

“Small world.”

 

They continue on and quietly talk about the work he’s put into the car over the years, while the rest of the garage moves on without them. Cars come and go out of the other three garage bays as well as shouts and conversations between the men doing the work. Furiosa is called away occasionally for a question or by a customer who insists on talking to her. As they wrap up, he wipes his hands on a rag and finds himself not wanting to leave. It’s a strange pulling in his guts that he hasn’t felt in years. It’s as if the steady stillness could actually be a comfort instead of the winding, constant motion of the road.

 

“Um,” he clears his throat. “You mentioned sparring? At the gym you mentioned-”

 

“I remember.”

 

The response is quick and almost sharp. Her stance straightens and he blinks at how she looks like she could be ready for a fight at any moment. He shuffles his feet and glances down at the oil stained floor.

 

“I don’t like it when it’s crowded. Miss Giddy lets me use equipment after hours. I thought we might…”

 

He meets her eyes again and her shoulders somewhat soften. She gives a small nod.

 

“I’ll think about it.”

 

“Okay. I’ll be back next Monday to work on the car.”

 

“Okay.”

 

He hums and then leaves. He feels tilted, like he was thrown back in the water just after finding his feet again on land. He rubs at this eyes, shaking his head, as he replays his stilted invitation.

 

//

 

Its just past ten when Max starts helping Miss Giddy close down the gym for the night. She’s counting out membership and locker fees, while he gathers trash bags. He takes them out to the dumpster in the back alley and something skitters in and out of the corner of his eye. He drops the bags in the dumpster and backs away as he scans the small area, fingers twitching at his side.

 

“Come on out” he calls.

 

There’s a sharp in-take of breath and then muffled whines. He thinks it’s from the far dumpster near the cake shop and edges closer to it. He peers around it to find a girl in a flowy, but short yellow dress and long dark hair curling around her shoulders. She pops up to her feet and squeezes into the tiny corner made by the brick building and the dumpster as if it might just swallow her up.

 

“Please don’t hurt me.”

 

Her fingers shake as she holds them out in front of her. They’re smeared with frosting and minute bits of cake from whatever she must have found tossed out. The front of her dress has a couple of dark stains smeared across it. It’s blood he’s certain and his gaze darts back to her face. She’s just a kid - certainly no more than seventeen and probably younger.

 

“I’m not gonna hurt you. You can come inside. There’s a woman there. Miss Giddy. I’m sure she’ll help you,” he says, but she just shakes her head and he knows she’s not going anywhere with him. “Okay. I’m going to go get her. So just...stay. Stay here.”

 

It only takes a grunt of “there’s a girl” and a tick of his head to get Miss Giddy to leave her task. She follows and then moves in front of him to take in the girl still huddled in her corner.

 

“What’s your name girl?” Miss Giddy asks.

 

“Cheedo.”

 

“Where did you come from?”

 

“The city.”

 

“Are you hurt?”

 

The girl shakes her head, but her face crumples. Miss Giddy gathers her up in her arms with shushes and quiet words of comfort. Frosting smears against against Miss Giddy’s white tunic as she gently sways back and forth. Max swallows and shuffles, hands clenching so as not to reach out.

 

“They’re coming for me,” the girl manages. “I’ve got no where to go.”

 

“Were you at the Border Land?” Miss Giddy asks and the girls nods. “It’s going to be okay. Max will take you to Furiosa. She can help.”

 

Max’s brows shoot up his forehead at the command and he shakes his head, mouth parting to protest. But Miss Giddy is already pulling the girl inside and assures her, “you’ll be safe with him.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me and this chapter had words, but I think I maybe know where we need to go now. What I originally wrote just didn't feel right. 
> 
> Also I went back into chapter 2 and changed the name mentioned in the news to match the cannon name for the Bullet Farmer (though I think I still made up the first name)

Max steers Miss Giddy’s ancient pick-up towards the address she gave him. The girl, Cheedo, is huddled in the passenger seat, knees to her chin and occasionally cuts her eyes towards him. Every time he returns her gaze with a raised brow, but her eyes just skitter away to the opposite window. So, he taps his fingers against the wheel with a huff and focuses on the road. He grits his teeth to keep the questions that want to bubble out of his mouth silent, while the cop in him wonders about this Borderland place. A place that would make a young girl run scared for her life.

 

He glances back over to the girl to find her chewing on her nails until she notices him. Her dark eyes meet his, watery with fear.

 

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s going to be okay.”

 

“That’s what she said,” Cheedo says as she turns away and leans her head against the window.

 

“Who’s she?”

 

She shrugs a shoulder, but doesn’t move otherwise. He focuses back on driving as he looks out for the street name Furiosa apparently lives on. He nearly misses it and makes a sharp left that makes his passenger shriek. Her hands clutch the dash and her breath comes out in sharp pants.

 

“Sorry,” he mutters.

 

She seems to relax as he creeps down the street and searches for numbers on the houses. Hardly any of them are visible from the road and he grunts out a curse. But then his eyes catch a Furiosa shaped figure two houses down as she moves off a porch. The truck’s headlights highlight her as she reaches the chain-link gate at the end of the walk. She somehow looks vulnerable, small, wrapped in an oversized sweater with her partial arm hidden under a capped sleeve.

 

Furiosa is already opening the gate as he pulls the truck over and to a stop in front of her. She hovers just beside the passenger tire and watches the girl watch her. Cheedo swallows and glances over at the house as if it’s a trap - as if she’s done this before.

 

Furiosa takes a step closer then and motions for the girl to roll down the window. Cheedo looks back to him and he gives her a nod before she turns back to the window and cranks it down. Furiosa steps up with a small smile and places her hand on the door.

 

“Hi. I’m Furiosa. Miss Giddy said you needed help. That you were at the Borderland,” she says and pauses as Cheedo catches her eyes and nods. “I know you’re scared, but I know people who can help. Get you someplace safe. You just have to come inside. I know you’ve heard that before, but I promise there’s no strings attached to this.”

 

Max blinks at that. He remembers the runaways and street kids he’s come across, either back as a cop or just another street urchin himself. He knows the things they’d do for a piece of bread or a night in a bed. He glances at the girl, wondering what she’s done. For a moment it doesn’t look like she’s going to budge as she weighs her options, but then the girl nods and opens the door to hop out of the truck. Furiosa guides the girl with a hand to her shoulder without a second glance to him. He watches them, knee bobbing up and down. _Fuck._

 

“Hey,” Max calls as he steps out of the truck and works to catch up to them at the gate. “Hey.”

 

Furiosa catches his eyes mid-step and then turns to the girl to say, “Go inside. The kitchen’s to the right when you walk in. Eat what you like. I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

The girl gives him one last look and then scurries away. When Furiosa turns fully back to him, her shoulders square and she stands straight revealing the inch or two in height she has on him. He swallows and takes a step back before he even realizes what he’s doing.

 

“You should go,” she says. “Thank you for helping her here, but I’ve got it.”

 

He gives a nod because she’s right - he should go. But his feet feel landlocked to the pavement even as she turns away, point made.

 

“Wait. What, uh, what is this Borderland place?”

 

She swings around, brow furrowed as she takes him in. He wonders what she sees as she scans him up and down. A threat? An annoyance? A customer? A man?

 

“Why?” she asks.

 

“Maybe I can help,” he shrugs.

 

She huffs and scrubs her palm across her forehead. When she looks back to her him, her hand falls down to her side with a shake of her head.

 

“I don’t know you. And this,” she flounders and gestures vaguely to the house. “I need to know you’re reliable.”

 

He nods, but knows there is nothing to prove this. He thinks about packing it in, going back to his tiny room and his nightmares. Instead, he steps closer and lowers his voice.

 

“Look, she’s got blood on her. And it’s not hers. She’s not going to be someone you can just disappear. I'm already involved."

 

"I appreciate that. I do, but its all the more reason for you to go. Go home."

 

She turns leaving him to watch as he disappears up the stairs and into the house. His eyes stray to the sway of her hips before he realizes and quickly raises his eyes. He huffs, kicking at a pebble on the pavement, and eyes the house even as he climbs back in the truck. He lets his leg bounce before he kicks the truck into gear and steers back to the gym.

 

//

 

When he gets back to the gym, Max finds himself in front of the old computer Miss Giddy keeps at the front desk. The broadband is slow at best, but he finally gets a browser up and Google open to type in his search on the Borderland.

 

Pictures pop up of a large, old estate in the mountains separating the Wasteland from the city. The search reveals nothing but a well-kept historic property that keeps afloat on donations and events like weddings. There’s a spotlight article in the local paper from two years ago praising the managers of the estate for their outreach work to young runaways.

 

He huffs as he shuts the computer down and the staggers up to his room to try and sleep.

 

//

 

He has the closing shift the next day at the bar and hasn’t really slept in 48 hours. He tried, but thoughts of Jessie as she was before - warm skin, lazy mornings, the powdery smell of her neck, get mixed with Furiosa - a solid, quiet authority, with eyes like pools he wants to dive into. He isn’t sure if it’s better or worse than the bloody mangled mess he’s grown used to.

 

He rubs at as his eyes in between customers and tries to shake the images. A throat clears behind him and he shifts to see Joe standing there, leaning on his outstretched arms against the bar. He's never seen him come up to the bar, always placing his orders to one of the two waitresses working the floor.

 

"What can I get you?"

 

“Just wanted to introduce myself, actually. Sheriff Joe Moore.”

 

Joe’s hand reaches out toward him. Max eyes it and then looks back up to the cool blue eyes that refuse to back down from his. There’s the slightest smirk on his face that maybe he intends to be inviting, but seems more like a secret he's flaunting. Max shakes the hand with a quick jerk and then returns it to the towel on the bar, clutching it with his fist.

 

“I understand you’re just passing through," Joe continues.

 

“Hmm. Until my car’s fixed.”

 

“Ah, yes. I understand it’s in the care of our Ms. JoBassa. Very efficient, though a bit...unstable. Not that you can blame her, losing so much at such a young age.”

 

Max blinks while the other man stares back him, letting the information sink in. Joe mutters a, “take care” and then Max watches him slip back to his table. Joe tips his glass in his direction like a toast before Max is called away to fill another drink.

 

//

 

He notices the truck before he sees her. It’s an antique, bulky with a covered bed, but not as old as Miss Giddy’s and is still a shiny blue. She’s parked in the alley by the side door she somehow knows he uses to get into the gym at night. She leans against the passenger door, her prosthetic already abandoned and a cigarette between her slim fingers.

 

"Hey," he calls out.

 

Her eyes flick towards him before she takes a final drag on the cigarette and then tosses it to the ground. She ambles over to the door where he’s waiting, hand stuffed into the pocket of her jeans. She glances down at the ground until she’s in front of him and when she meets his eyes he swallows. Her lips are set in a frown and she scans the area behind him despite the fact it’s nearly 1am and no one’s about.

 

"Can I talk to you?" she all but whispers into the empty alley.

 

He hums and nods towards the door before he pushes it open. He holds it open and at first she just stares at him, but then takes the first step inside. He locks the door behind them and then watches as she wanders the empty gym. There's nothing unpredictable about her movements, but there's anger. All he had to do was see one bout of her in the ring to know her sinew and bones are etched with it. He might say the same about himself.

 

“Miss Giddy's become quite fond of you,” she says as she stops just a couple yards in front of him.

 

“You checked up on me?"

 

"Wanted to know what her impression was."

 

"You trust her opinion."

 

"She helped me a long time ago."

 

She looks over the gym and avoids his gaze, like she’s revealed too much.

 

"The girl? Is she okay?"

 

“That's why I'm here. I, uh, I may need your help. If you're still willing.”

 

He squints, surprised, but then nods and offers her a seat.


End file.
